


Could Never Be Heaven Without You

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal Season One, Hannibal and Will are very bad at flirting, Hannibal has an unusual idea of what romancing someone is, Hannibal is a desperate Cannibal, M/M, Multi, What might happen if Hannibal actually had a conscience, Will Graham is a sweetie pie who doesn't deserve this, between scenes style narrative, episode canon divergence, h/c, sick fic (Hannibal style), smh what an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly
Summary: As soon as Hannibal sees his lashes lowered to hide steel coloured eyes, he’s snared. Even in the greenish, clinical light, his profile flanked by pictures of dead girls, Will Graham looks like a gift, presented to Hannibal by knowing hands. Soft eyes in a hardened face, brows pinched in fear. When he speaks, Hannibal sees the muscles in his jaw working hard against his controlled delivery, like he could scream and cry at any given moment.Hannibal wants to hear every word he has bottled up inside him.A re-imagining of Hannibal and Will's relationship developing in and between scenes, starting from their first encounter. Or, what might have happened if Hannibal and Will had gotten a fucking clue about one another.





	Could Never Be Heaven Without You

**Author's Note:**

> These is the first part of a piece I wanted to write to get out all my feelings about Mads saying Hannibal fell in love with Will at first sight. I so often feel like there are huge, timeless gaps in the show, and this is my way of exercising what might have happened between those scenes. This is based loosely around canon and may diverge quite a bit, so forgive my artistic license. Additionally, some scenes contain direct language from the show, which might seem like a bit of a cop out but is there for a reason. Also, there's some painful murder flirting, so there's that.  
> Thanks xoxo
> 
> Title is from Brand New's 'Could Never Be Heaven'.

Jack had told Hannibal that Will Graham was difficult, and Hannibal had been prepared to immediately dislike him despite his undeniable curiosity. Now even the sight of him is off putting through the narrow cut out window of the Jack’s door; drab shirt and pants, unruly hair and the stance of a man who doesn’t want to be here. 

What Jack hadn’t said was that Will Graham was  _ interesting _ . He seems to have an internal compass which propels him away from purposeful human contact at all times, and Hannibal soon sees getting into his field of vision is as easy as pushing two opposing ends of a magnet together. Will Graham does not simper, or pander, like Jack had in his ham-fisted attempt at manipulation. When they enter the briefing room, he doesn’t even acknowledge Hannibal’s presence, just moving to the board at the end of the office, face raised as if he were examining a stained glass window.

A faint frisson of surprise wavers within Hannibal: he has spent the morning having has hand shook by sycophants who know him by reputation and are dying to know him by much more. He’s not even thoroughly convinced Will knows he’s there, or if he thinks Hannibal might be a figment of his imagination. That piques his curiosity.

When Jack addresses Will, his ear turns to his voice but his eyes stay on the board like he can’t be torn away. He gives his assessment in a clipped, concise way, so practised that Hannibal can practically see the streams of stoppered up words dancing behind Will’s eyes: what he can’t, or won’t, let himself say. 

And then, finally, Will sits down to sip his coffee, and Hannibal just watches him for a long moment. He’s moved by how vulnerable Will seems, with a Ganymedian handsomeness that he clearly does his best to disguise and protective body language, like a dog waiting to be kicked. 

He speaks to Hannibal in his dull Louisiana drawl, curtailing any attempts at friendliness. Hannibal isn’t deterred. Will _is_ difficult, even rude, but it isn’t the usual kind, lacking self-awareness. In fact it’s quite the opposite: Will conducts himself as if to protect those around him from catching whatever he has, like his sickness could transfer from eye contact alone. 

Hannibal thinks he wants to catch it. 

He can smell Will; a blend of deodorant, citrus soap, nervous sweat, and rapidly cycling hormones. There’s a wind blown air to him, his curls tousled and cheeks faintly flushed, like he spends a lot of time outdoors. He licks coffee from his lower lip, and turns to Hannibal.

As soon as Hannibal sees his lashes lowered to hide steel coloured eyes, he’s snared. Even in the greenish, clinical light, his profile flanked by pictures of dead girls, Will Graham looks like a gift, presented to Hannibal by knowing hands. Soft eyes in a hardened face, brows pinched in fear. When he speaks, Hannibal sees the muscles in his jaw working hard against his controlled delivery, like he could scream and cry at any given moment. 

Hannibal wants to hear every word he has bottled up inside him.

 

Intrigue makes Hannibal hasty, less careful than he should be. He takes Will Graham breakfast to his hotel room in Minnesota, and the sight of him squinting in the light, sweat misted and sleep soft, is enough to make Hannibal lick his lips. Even the flattening of his hair where he’s been asleep is maddeningly endearing. 

Will seems barbed then, defensive and embarrassed. Hannibal doesn’t flinch at his biting words, and they don’t bring the usual river of loathing rushing with them that other people might inspire. He just dishes Will up some breakfast, and watches him eat his food with a familiar curl of warmth in his gut at the sight.

“It’s delicious.” Will tells him, and Hannibal does not reply, “So are you.”

In the days following, Hannibal only grows more intrigued. Will has a keen deductive mind, coupled with an almost supernatural instinct for motive and psychological process. Were Hannibal less of a scientist, he’d almost describe Will as a human spirit board: a vessel through which the dead freely talk.

“It really is quite remarkable, your gift,” he tells him, watching Will shift anxiously in his chair. It’s just past seven in the evening, and Hannibal’s office has a twilight quality to it.

“I don’t know that I’d call it a gift,” Will replies, mouth twisting.

“I would. A heightened sense. In evolutionary terms, Will, you’ve developed a specialist survival tool.”

That makes Will quiet for a moment, clearly debating a multitude of replies. 

“Don’t know that it’s helping _me_ survive,” he decides, when the silence becomes pregnant. 

Hannibal gives him a small smile. He wonders what it must be like, to believe yourself incapable of holding fast beneath the pressure of your own psyche. 

“Do you see yourself as Atlas, trembling under the weight of the sky?” he inquires, tone measured.

“The sky being my sanity?” Will looks reluctantly amused by that. “Rain-filled clouds weigh more than clear blue space.”

“If the sky falls, where does that leave you? Crushed?”

“At the bottom of the ocean.” Will agrees, his eyes going vacant. “Dashed to bits on the reef.”

Hannibal has a great love of poetry, and he sees so much of it in Will. He imagines a life, briefly, where Will had never become a police officer, or this bloody manhunter. Had he Hannibal’s education, and Hannibal’s opportunities, he would have made a fine literary scholar; a sensitive muse. 

“Rain-laden clouds make for atmospheric pressure, and storms,” Hannibal offers, voice gentling. “When the storm has passed, the skies are clear again. The oceans calm.”

“There’s always a storm somewhere,” Will counters.  

“That’s true,” Hannibal allows, “but there are ways to outrun storms, and when you grow weary, there are people to help you hold up the sky.”

Will looks at him, eyes flashing pale in the lamplight. Hannibal holds his gaze.

Outside, it starts to rain.

 

Hannibal thinks Will can see his longing for him already- or a part of it. Hannibal leaves him gifts in places everyone will find them, and Will looks over each brutalised corpse like he’s studying a fine portrait. 

Sometimes, with his gifts, Hannibal can bring him to tears. That’s how he realises that what he feels for Will is truly beyond mere fascination, even within those first precious weeks and days. Will looks at the debris of Hannibal’s influence, lying on linoleum kitchen floors, mounted on antlers, or sitting blue-eyed in hospital rooms asking to be protected, and his eyes shine. 

Hannibal sees himself so closely intertwined with Will already, that it’s hard to wait for him to catch up. When he closes his eyes at night, Hannibal sees himself licking the salt from the corners of Will’s eyes like some lavish delicacy. 

He takes him dinner one night, prepared at home and covered with a cloche to keep fresh. It’s a long drive out to Wolftrap, but it’s worth it for Will’s wary look as Hannibal pulls up to the porch, the dogs barking around him protectively. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says by way of greeting, watching Hannibal get out of the car. He’s in oil stained jeans and a sheepskin jacket that looks like it’s seen better days too, hugging an enamel mug of coffee to his chest. He has never been a man of good taste, but Hannibal thinks that is a result of a lack of opportunity. Will has spent his life on boats and in RVs and roving listlessly through the deep South, and Hannibal imagines that everything he has bought himself since he could afford to- from the basic bed he has, to the space heater and the host of dull and practical clothes he wears- has been a guilt-making luxury in Will’s eyes.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he jokes. When Will continues to look confused, Hannibal proffers the tray up, voice taking on an apologetic tone. “I actually found myself in the all-too common state of having cooked too much food for just myself. Having a solitary disposition can be inconvenient. I thought you might face similar problems.” 

He thinks he can see the start of a smile at the corner of Will’s mouth, almost reluctant.

“I hardly ever bother to cook for just me. Seems a waste.”

“Then you understand my predicament.” Hannibal smiles back, wider. “May I come inside?”

“Oh- yeah, sorry…” 

Whistling for the dogs, Will opens the door to let Hannibal through. The house inside is cosy, smelling of smoked wood from the fire. Hannibal takes himself to the kitchen, starting to rummage around for plates as Will comes to hover behind him in the doorway. 

“Are you checking up on me, Doctor?” Will asks, like he’s trying to pose it as a joke and falling just short. 

“I am bringing dinner to a colleague and a friend. You and I have much to discuss outside of my office, Will. Our conversations needn’t pertain to your psychiatric wellness, nor your work.”

Will is silent, like he doesn’t quite believe it. It’s not entirely a lie, but Hannibal doesn’t think an earnest declaration of his intentions would go down well either. 

“Are psychiatrists meant to befriend their patients?”

“You are not my patient.” And Hannibal does not want to be Will’s friend, but the assumption is harmless enough. 

Will must be satisfied, because he takes off his jacket and goes to wash his hands at the sink. Hannibal watches from the corner of his eye, imagining Will as a boy, rolling his shirt sleeves up and scrubbing his hands before dinner at the command of his father. 

When their meals are served and Will has poured them both a glass of the wine Hannibal brought with him, they eat in relative silence. Will still looks pensieve, like he’s waiting for the other foot to drop. 

“So, back to teaching for a few days?” Hannibal asks, to help propel him away from his suspicions. 

“Until the next body drops, I suppose.”

“Are you apprehensive about that? Or merely anticipating?”

“I thought this wasn’t a therapy session, Doctor Lecter.”

“Forgive me, I’m just curious. You seem to hate field work, but I don’t get the sense you prefer teaching.” He takes a mouthful of his meal, concentrating as his chews. When he swallows, he adds, “And please, Will, call me Hannibal.”

Will doesn’t call him anything, or say anything at all. He takes a sip of wine that Hannibal fancies is for courage rather than accompaniment to his meat. 

“I like teaching,” he says finally, “I like standing there, talking into empty space. In the dark, when the projector is on, I can’t see the students. They get to see what kind of thinking they should be employing; to really absorb the reality of it.” He smiles to himself a bit. “I’m just freeballing with the void, I guess.”

“And does the void ever answer?”

Will’s eyebrows quirk. He’s smiling that smile again, the one he wears when he’s offended but believes the motives of the offender to be benign.

“I talk back. I’m fairly certain in this scenario the void is my mind, and not my existential crisis.”

“All right.” Hannibal sips his wine to give Will a moment to think.

“I don’t prefer field work,” he says eventually, “but I’m saving lives. In a classroom, maybe I’m teaching people how to do that- maybe a few will go on to save lives. In the field, it’s my hands, and my brain, and my body that saves them. I suppose that’s selfish, or vain, or something.”

Hannibal can’t help but glance at each corresponding area. He smiles.

“I think you may be a better person than you give yourself credit for, Will.”

“What kind of a person would I be if I didn’t find saving lives rewarding?”

“What kind of person indeed.” 

Will shifts nervously in his chair, gesturing at his plate.

“This is incredible, thank you for coming over. It’s uh, it’s nice to have company.”

It sounds like a lie, but when Will looks over, he meets Hannibal’s eyes very briefly, and Hannibal knows it’s not.

“Loneliness is not a price you should have to pay for the nature of your work, Will,” Hannibal offers.

“It’s not my work that keeps people away, Doctor, it’s my personality.”

“I’m still here.”

“You’re new.”

“And yet I know you intimately.”

“Perks of being a psychiatrist,” Will says.

“Not always. I sometimes know people far more intimately than I want to.” Hannibal looks at his plate briefly, thinking grimly of Franklyn Froideveaux and his masterbatory narrative.

“Sorry, I’ll lay off my sex fantasies,” Will quips, and Hannibal lets out a burst of a laugh, surprised.

“Much appreciated, Will.”

Will laughs too, but he looks curious. “What about you, Doctor Lecter, are you lonely as a result of your work, or your personality?”

“Who said I was lonely?” Hannibal’s eyebrows raise. “I have many friends, and a busy social calendar.”

“But you’re here with me on a Friday night, as opposed to with one of those friends. Is it a pity thing?”

“No,” Hannibal says immediately, “I don’t pity you, and I never will. I admire you.”

It’s more forthcoming than he intended to be. Will looks startled, a blush spreading across the bridge of his nose that makes Hannibal swallow. He watches Will dip his chin to hide a smile. He smiles too, and tops up Will’s glass. 

After dinner, Will takes the plates and the cloche and washes them, sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned forearms, lithely muscled. Hannibal allows himself to peer as he makes them coffee, and imagines Will working on a dock, arms bared and fingers carefully working. Wind-burnt, hair wild, skin salty: all the things he saw in Abigail Hobbs that reminded him of himself. Hannibal is surprised by Will’s longing for fatherhood. Perhaps he thinks he could improve on the childhood his own father bestowed upon him; Garrett Jacob Hobbs on Abigail. He has a fatherly air about him even, when he talks about his students, even when he’s talking to his dogs- like a young divorc é e. He telegraphs his need to love like a thing possessed, but always shrinks from the opportunity. 

“Why aren’t you married, Will?” Hannibal asks: it’s too blunt, perhaps, but Will seems to appreciate bluntness.

“I haven’t found the right person. Why aren’t you married?” His voice is charmingly asinine. Hannibal smiles, his feelings already far beyond fond. 

“I am selective. You aren’t looking?”

“I can believe that. I’m not looking. Expectation leads to disappointment.”

“Rejection is painful.”

“I’m not afraid of rejection, Hannibal.” He tests out the name. “Rejection and I are old friends.”

“So why aren’t you looking? Do you struggle to connect?”

“It’s not that, you know that. Often my connections are unhealthy, or imagined.”

“One-sided?”

“Sometimes.”

“You find connecting dangerous.”

“Don’t we all? Besides, my brain can make a connection with just about anyone. Sometimes I think I’ll know when I find the right one. Sometimes, it’s not worth the risk.”

Sliding him a cup of coffee, Hannibal leans back against the counter, adjusting his waistcoat slightly and watching Will’s gaze trail from his extended hand to his chest. 

Hannibal tilts his chin. “What makes it worth the risk?”

Will hesitates for a long time again before he responds. 

“The potential to come out the other side a better version of who you were to start, I suppose,” he murmurs. “To learn things about yourself while you learn them about someone else. To be honest, completely honest. That’s hard to do when your waking thoughts are occupied with sleepless dreams.”

Hannibal thinks of Will in his office, on the verge of tears from the horror he’d felt at his own selfish delight at the death of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. 

“Is honesty important to you because you struggle to utilise it, Will?”

“I find when I’m honest, people either assume I’m lying, or they’re frightened.”

“And you’ve met no one who neither disbelieves or fears your words?”

“No one except you,” Will says, and Hannibal’s stomach flips. 

  
  


When Will arrives at Hannibal’s house and tells him he kissed Alana Bloom, Hannibal’s first instinct is to kill her. He doesn’t particularly want to: he likes her, and respects her, and finds her refreshing. He does need to though, both for kissing Will, and for breaking his heart. He feels a seething, unfamiliar coldness in his core that he thinks could be envy. Apparently he’s angry at Will too. The sight of him gazing at Hannibal with eyes like glass when he’d had intervened with Devon Silvestri’s botched procurement surgery still hangs in his mind like a renaissance portrait, and the fact that Will has still seen fit to pursue Alana despite everything feels like spit on Hannibal’s face. 

Even so, Will is here now, telling him about it, agitated and confused. Hannibal remembers Tobias Budge, poised like a gun in the dining room, and blinks away the fury.

“Well, come in.”

Will walks through the dining room, oblivious to Hannibal’s cold shoulder.

“You have a guest?”

“A colleague. You just missed him.”

“He didn’t finish his dinner.”

“An urgent call of some sort. He had to leave suddenly.” Hannibal closes the door over. “This benefits you, because I have dessert for two.”

They continue to the kitchen. Will still seems twitchy, guilty, anxious. Hannibal is glad. 

“Tell me, what was Alana's reaction?” 

“She said she wouldn't be good for me, and I wouldn't be good for her.”

Perhaps Hannibal will let her live.

“I don't disagree. She would feel an obligation to her field of study to observe you, and you would resent her for it.”

“I know.” He dips his head. 

Irritation flaring again, Hannibal whips cream. “Wondering then why you kissed her, and felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me about it.”

That makes Will blanch a bit, sheepish.

“Well, I wanted to kiss her since I met her. She's very kissable.”

“You waited a long time, which suggests you were kissing her for a reason, in addition to wanting to.”

“I heard an animal trapped in my chimney - broke through the wall to get it out. Didn't find anything inside.” He screws his face up at the thought, and Hannibal forces himself to calm down and listen. “Alana showed up, she looked at me, I, maybe her face changed. I don't know. But, um, she knew.”

That makes Hannibal pause. The fevered sweetness he scented on Will weeks ago is still here now, just detectable above the cinnamon and chocolate. 

“What did she know, Will?”

“There was no animal in the chimney. It was only in my head.” He looks at his shoes. “I sleepwalk. I get headaches. I’m hearing things…” his eyes find Hannibal’s. “I feel unstable.”

A little bit of warm relief thaws Hannibal’s insides. “That's why you kissed her: a clutch for balance. You said yourself, what you do is not good for you.”

“Well, unfortunately, I am good for it.”

“Are you still hearing this killer's serenade behind your eyes?”

Will chuckles. “Well, it's our song.”

Another flash of jealousy. Hannibal is going to make Tobias suffer, for sure, but first, it’s Will’s turn.

“I hesitate telling you this, as it borders on a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality...” he starts, feigning uncertainty. “A patient told me today he suspects a friend of his may be involved with the murder at the symphony.”

  
  


When Hannibal cracks open Tobias Budge’s skull with one of his favourite sculptures, it takes him ten seconds or so to slow his rushing pulse. He thinks of biting his throat, ripping it out, but there would be no coming back from that, no way to paint himself in Jack’s eyes as a victim. 

_I just killed two men._

Will. Hannibal’s eyes screw shut at the thought. If his impulsive anger has cost him the only thing that truly brings him contentment, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Sending Will after Tobias was an act of careless, childish displeasure, and Hannibal must not allow himself to be so rash again. He should have snapped Tobias’ neck when the door went last night; thrown him down the basement stairs before answering the door. 

Again, he looks at the body, considering all the ways he could rearrange Tobias, but he restrains himself. Instead, hands aching, thigh pulsing with pain, Hannibal reaches out and touches his fingers to the keys of the harpsichord. 

Then he calls Jack. While the FBI forensics team combs his office and Tobias’ body, Hannibal sits in his chair, favouring his leg and the other wounds he has been dealt. His heart aches at the thought of Will, cold as ice, eyes going milky with decay in some drawer at the lab. 

Echoing from the corridor, he hears voices, and his heart lurches. Jack enters the office, face set like a gargoyle, and Hannibal’s eyes start to sting- and then he sees Will. Their eyes meet. Will looks nothing but concerned, and Hannibal discounts any fleeting notion that Will might have finally figured him out. Instead, he leans into the warm touch of his hand on his shoulder, allowing himself to be buoyed with warm, light relief. 

Some time later, when he’s given a statement and been released from questioning, Hannibal is surprised to find Will waiting for him outside Jack’s office. 

“You were brought here by police, I thought you might need a ride home,” he explains. Hannibal gratefully accepts. 

“The paramedic gave me pain relief, I think I’m feeling it quite a bit now.”

“It might be shock, too.”

Hannibal doubts it, but he nods again.

The drive is quiet and steady. Hannibal glances at Will from the passenger seat.

“How are you feeling?”

“Isn’t that my line? I’m fine,” Will says, “what about you?”

“I will be fine. I just need some time.”

“I can ask my sitter to look in on the dogs, if you want me to stay with you, y’know,” Will offers, quietly. Hannibal looks at him again, hard, and tries to decide if the motive is purely selfless. His own are completely selfish; he doesn’t need comforting, or treating for shock, but the thought of having Will to himself for the night is so tempting. Hannibal resents his own weakness in that moment- it’s too easy to blame on the morphine.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not an inconvenience. I wouldn’t want to be alone after what happened to you, and I want to make sure you’re okay. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Hannibal nods at that. He can’t resist prodding a bit more. “You don’t want to make amends with Alana?”

“Things are fine with Alana, we don’t have any amends to make,” Will says simply, “you’re right, I was reaching, she was there, I hung on… I was just scared. Truthfully, I like Alana- but she’s right, I’m not in the right place for this, and I haven’t been waiting for her. I need to be right in myself before I could even think about a relationship- and I don’t think I’d want one with someone who couldn’t just let me be myself without analysing it, and I can’t support her, or be there for her. It’s not fair to foist myself on her like that when I know she worries.”

The knot in Hannibal’s chest loosens. He lets out a breath.

“More therapy then, perhaps,” he suggests glibly. Will huffs a laugh. 

“Yup. Looks like it’s you and I for the foreseeable future.”

Hannibal likes the sound of that. His hindbrain is already whirring, formulating a plan to make sure Will never even dreams of kissing Alana again, and vice versa.

At the house, Will nervously starts on dinner - “I can cook some stuff,” he’d said defensively - while Hannibal goes upstairs to the en suite to shower off the day. The paramedic at his office had taken a look at his leg, but the wound is shallow and Hannibal knew immediately, and despite her opinion, that a hospital could provide no better care than he could himself. She’d disinfected and pinched it shut with butterfly closures, and Hannibal is careful to avoid soaking the dressing in the shower now. The rest of his wounds are scrapes, sprains, and bruises. He endures the sting for as long as he can before getting out of the shower, patting at anything that still bleeds with a clean towel. 

He starts to dress, pausing when pulling on underwear proves more demanding than originally supposed. He can hear Will ascending the stairs, presumably to check he hasn’t passed out or succumb to shock, and once he’s secured his modesty he pulls his robe on hastily before Will knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” he says, finding himself unable to care that Will is seeing his bedroom for the first time, or indeed in his underwear. His head is unpleasantly light.

“I hope you don’t mind, I liberated some of your pantry supplies. I’m making soup.”

“I don’t mind at all.” It’s true, he realises. “Forgive my undress, Will, I have found myself in the rare position of being challenged by my clothing.”

That makes Will stifle a laugh, albeit poorly. He’s blushing again, and it’s endlessly appealing, the way the bridge of his nose turns pink. 

“Would you like some help? I don’t think this is even the third most uncomfortable situation we’ve found ourselves in lately.”

“All right.” Hannibal nods. “If you don’t mind.”

Will’s hands are unsurprisingly gentle when he helps Hannibal stand up and step into his pyjama pants. He does it quickly, and clinically, and Hannibal is warmed by the deep flush in his cheeks. Even so, he feigns awkwardness.

“Dinner will be ready soon, if you feel up to it,” Will tells him, stepping back. Truthfully, Hannibal doesn’t know if he does, but food might at least rid him of the feeling that he’s underwater.

“Thank you. I think I can manage some dinner- and the shirt.”

Will moves toward the door, and Hannibal thinks he hears him say, “Well, just let me know.” 

Eventually, Hannibal hobbles downstairs, and he’s greeted by two place settings at his table- exactly how he lays them out- and one steaming bowl of soup apiece. When he sits down, he notices Will has set them opposite one another, rather than with Hannibal at the head of the table where he might usually sit. With Will opposite him, he’ll have more of an excuse to examine his face. Hannibal smiles up at him as Will comes to pour him some water.

“I don’t think you should drink if you’ve taken pain killers,” he explains, but Hannibal doesn’t mind one bit. He lets Will sit down before he takes a sip, then picks up his spoon.

The soup is perfectly passable, even garnished with coriander, and Hannibal doesn’t let himself appear relieved for the fact. 

“Did you cook for your father, Will?”

“Yeah,” he pokes his own around with his spoon, looking distant at the thought, “he used to be starving when he got in from work. We didn’t have a lot of money, but because he worked late, I used to buy and make dinner quite often. When he got bored of mac and cheese, I started practising.”

“And this is one of your recipes?”

“I got it out of a magazine, but he liked it, so it stuck.”

“It’s very pleasant.” 

Will chuffs softly in disbelief. 

“Probably because it’s made from your ingredients and not mine.”

“Food tastes so often of the intention behind it,” Hannibal says, before he can stop himself, “you cooked for your father out of love.”

He can feel Will looking at him, and he can imagine the expression on his face. Determinedly, he picks up a piece of bread and butters it aggressively until Will goes back to his dinner. When he sneaks a glance, Hannibal can see that he looks pleased and perplexed. It’s one of his favourite expressions on him.

When his bowl is empty and he can’t ignore the blur at the edges of his vision, Hannibal stands up. He wishes he’d resisted the paramedic’s insistence, but he knew it would raise more curiosity than he could afford.

“Forgive me, but I think I had better retire. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

Will stands too, and before he can protest, Hannibal finds Will’s arm around his waist, his shoulder under his to propel him back upstairs.

“It’s okay, you had a long, hard day.”

“You say it like I’m the only one,” Hannibal mutters. They’re at the top of the stairs now. Will carefully steers them into his bedroom, letting Hannibal lean against the wall for a second as he pulls back the sheets.

“I’m fine, I promise,” he guides him to bed, and Hannibal gratefully settles down on the mattress, smiling when Will pulls up the covers, “get some rest. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Where will you sleep?” Hannibal asks, quickly. For a brief second, he fears Will wandering around alone in the house, but the basement is locked, and Will is observant but not nosey.  

“I’ll be in the guest room. Just call if you need me. Good night.”

Satisfied, Hannibal allows him to switch off the bedside light. The outline of him moves toward the bar of dull amber light from the landing, and Hannibal speaks again.

“Will-?”

He turns back. “Yeah-?”

“Thank you for tucking me in.” He thinks he can see him smiling in the dark. He decides, then and there, that he forgives him for kissing Alana.

“You’re welcome.”

 


End file.
